


Sugar and Spice

by PhantomEngineer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomEngineer/pseuds/PhantomEngineer
Summary: Sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what little girls are made of, and Severus Snape had always been very good with recipes.It’s not what this story is made of though. This story is all misery, manipulation and abuse. Severus gets the joy of pretending to be a girl as if his life depends on it, because it might. While it might sound like a nice silly story, it is actually really quite dark. Lots of horrible things happen and a lot of people are quite awful, though sometimes it is entirely unintentional. Basically, Severus suffers quite a bit (though all psychologically if that make a difference), but at least he looks pretty while his sense of identity and self worth are systematically eroded. Also, there is a running theme that could potentially be considered disordered eating or be taken as an unhealthy relationship with food, so while it’s not going to be a full blown exploration of eating disorders, I just want to forewarn anyone who might be uncomfortable with such topics.But if you want a grim story about Severus being James Potter’s sister in a pretty dress…? Then read this I guess? But if you’re looking for a good time, probably don’t.





	1. Chapter 1

He didn’t really remember how he got there, he didn’t really want to remember anything. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the part that was still operating despite the blood and shredded limbs that seemed to overwhelm his senses, he knew he was at Hogwarts. His body sat trembling in the headmaster’s office, his mind lost in a blurred mess of unwanted memories that he was already suppressing.

It was the smell he had noticed first, as he stepped over the threshold of the house he had reluctantly called home. The house had never smelt good, with the lingering notes of mould and damp a constant of his childhood, but that scent had been almost overpowering in its unpleasant intensity. He had never smelt anything quite like it before, and he hoped beyond all rationality that he never would again. He wondered if he would ever be able to cleanse himself of the smell, it seemed to cling to him, making him desperate to agree to escape the office and scour himself with scalding water. To burn his clothes, to exorcise himself of everything. Yet at the same time his whole body felt heavy, as if to move was an effort far beyond his capabilities, his mind stagnant and incapable of action. 

The house had been unnervingly silent, gapingly empty until he had noticed the blood. And after that, he hadn’t been able to see anything else. He could see it now, blood and chunks of flesh. The positions. The pieces. The image was distorted and yet still burnt into his brain. He had been aware, vaguely, of a man speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, but nothing had really existed in that moment. The world had stopped, and ended, and somehow it had restarted but with everything changed. Even now he had little idea of what was real, the physical certainty of Dumbledore’s blue eyes seeming impossibly distant from across the desk, the warm drink he had been almost forcefully given had barely had a taste. The drink had melted its way down him, melting his insides, and he hadn’t even registered what it was or what it could be. He had just obediently drunk it, trusting without consciously trusting, as if all animation had been sucked out of him.

Severus put up no resistance, the words he was hearing slipping out of his brain like wet sand, thudding to the floor. He couldn’t understand anything, all comprehension was gone. He nodded, passively, allowing Dumbledore to manoeuvre his body firmly. He had no idea what he was being told, what he was agreeing to. All he knew was that he felt like he had died, been twisted and torn into a million pieces, shattered and regurgitated out onto the stone floor. A life time could have passed in that state, as Severus was guided by an unyielding hand to the bathrooms, where finally his clothes were unceremoniously stripped from him. He let Dumbledore slather him liberally with overwhelmingly perfumed soaps, purging him of any traces of what had been left of who he had been but a few hours ago. Through their smell he could still smell the lingering scents of the house clinging to his skin and hair. A few hours ago he had been confident and assured, a boy heading home for the summer. Now he was only feebly holding on to reality, drifting in and out of conscious awareness in a rolling, titling, disorientating manner. Everything fractured and shattered inside his mind, as if he might never be repaired, and even if he were the cracks would never fade.

Gentle fingers washed away all that was left of him, uncompromising in their intent, cleaning him of his past. Dirt and soap mixed with the water, steaming and washed down the drain, taking with it the shields of his identity. The water dripped like the blood had dripped, pooling and spilling. He could have been drowned in the waters without noticing, everything numbed and sponged out of existence. His hair was washed, purged of all traces of grease, shampoo massaged into his scalp as if attempting to penetrate his skull. Everything was rinsed away, leaving him feeling like merely an empty shell of the demon he had once been, exorcised away.

He gave no objection when Dumbledore dried him off, and none when he dressed him, the shock still gripping him uncompromisingly. Vaguely, somewhere deep inside, a part of him expressed confusion, but it was like thinking through quicksand, the harder he tried to think the further in he sunk. The frilly bloomers were first, white and lacy. Severus stared vacantly at them, and his thin legs emerging from underneath as if they belonged to someone else. The dress was harder, carefully wrapped around Severus’s floppy limbs. The frilled bell skirt came down past his knees, ending in a cascade of white lace, decorated with red bows and a cute strawberry pattern. The sleeves too ended in wide white lace and red bows, as well as gracing his neck.

He sat on the chair in the dress as Dumbledore fussed around with his hair. No one had ever had anything much to do with his hair, and a small part of him found it strangely pleasant to have someone stroke through it. Dumbledore was twisting it round and round, while he muttered away to himself, as Severus remained blank faced and silent.

“Severine,”

“Severine,”

“Severine,”

Severus had no idea how long Dumbledore had been calling him, how long his hair had been dried and set in what he vaguely realised were ringlets. He blinked, his mind still feeling like it belonged to someone else, as foreign to him as the curls that fell around his face. His name wasn’t Severine, it was Severus. At least he had thought so, but now it hurt to think. He looked down at his hands, clasped on the strawberry print fabric in his lap.

“Severine,” Dumbledore repeated, “If you want to have any chance of survival you must never let your secret be revealed. I can only do so much to protect you. I have arranged for you to stay with the Potters, they’ve always wanted a daughter. They will keep you safe, but if you want our protection we expect obedience,”

Severus nodded, lips parted, the words trickling and echoing through his mind as if they were a foreign language he could barely speak. He tried to understand, but his head hurt when he thought. It felt as if his mouth was filled with cotton wool, muffling and choking him, soft and deadly. It was almost as if his brain had been smothered, his emotions drowned in treacle, dark and viscous, drowning him with sweetness. Dumbledore’s mutterings sank into his mind without passing through his consciousness, whispered reassurances or threats, it was all the same to him. 

Another steaming mug found its way into his hands, and he loosely held it. It took more strength and concentration than it should have to not drop it on the cold stone floor, shattering and spilling piping hot liquid everywhere, but he clung on. The fumes stupefied him even more, soothing him as if he needed to relax further, when he felt as if he had already melted into a puddle of helpless goo smeared on the chair, oozing through the cracks of reality. He sipped, his tongue not burning as it should have done, as if pain no longer existed in his world.

Dumbledore continued his talking, his words going in circles that swirled around Severus without meaning. He seemed to be trying to impress something on Severus, instructions that needed constant repetition. The words girl and secret repeated themselves like a broken record, scratching and warping, blending in with obedience and death. Everything was drowned out by the echoing white noise inside his mind, yet at the same time Dumbledore’s words penetrated his soul without him having to know or understand. He nodded, again and again, like a doll with no will of its own.

The fire flared, the flickering light seeming further away than it should have been. Severus sipped his drink, aware that one time he would have wondered what it was. He didn’t wonder now, he just drank in silence. He didn’t question the clothes he was wearing or the woman who stepped from the fireplace. She and Dumbledore spoke openly in front of him, but he struggled to catch their words, struggled to understand them. It almost didn’t feel important. It was as if his mind had been silenced by the silence of the house at Spinner’s End, shredded to pieces like flesh from bone.

Severus sipped again at his drink, taking comfort in the way the warm liquid ran through him, killing all resistance with its smooth, soporific sweetness. He felt as if, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, he could identify the ingredients of the mixture, but the thoughts seemed to slip away from him, like minnows slipping through fingers, escaping to freedom far away. Leaving him empty. Leaving him null and void. 

He almost didn’t notice when the woman knelt down beside him, concerned brown eyes looking softly into his. He gazed back at her blankly, some small remnant of himself finding there to be something familiar to her features, an abstract realisation that passed through his mind without note. She gently brushed his hair back from his face, his expression still a death mask lacking in all emotion and expression.

“Severine,” she spoke, her lips and the words not matching up in Severus’s perception. He wanted to wonder where that name had come from, why she was calling him Severine, just like Dumbledore, but he couldn’t. He didn’t understand, but still he recognised the meaning deep inside. He understood even as he didn’t understand. He obeyed unquestioningly as if he were enchanted. 

“Severine,” she spoke again, “I’m Euphemia Potter, your new mother. I’m here to take you home,”

Her hair was grey, but the lines of her face were kind. Her fingers were gentle as they caressed the side of Severus’s face, a show of comfort no one had ever chosen to give him before. He wasn’t used to kind adults, but the thought of adults shattered through him like a poisonous barb, agony filling his mind. There was a shadowy hint of limbs dripping blood, a wave of a scent that wasn’t really in the room, a vision of something his subconscious was valiantly trying to have him unsee.

“You don’t have to talk about anything,” the woman continued, prattling on vaguely as if aware that Severus was only barely there, physically present but mentally long gone, “All I want is to take you home and take care of you. I’ve always dreamt of having a daughter and you’re such a pretty little girl. I’m sure having a sister will be good for James too,”

She didn’t appear to expect any kind of answer, not even being phased by the fact that Severus wasn’t even reacting. She seemed content to treat him like a life-size, living doll. Severus didn’t feel like he was entirely inside his own body, wrapped up in bows and frills. He felt rather that he was slightly outside of it, not entirely detached but only partially overlapping. Had Euphemia’s fingers switched from softly carding through his hair to grasping round his throat, pressing and strangling, he doubted he would have noticed. He had neither the strength nor the presence of mind to consider self-defence. Nothing felt real, not even his own body.

“You’ll want for nothing with us,” she said, her voice patient as she gently took Severus by the hand. She guided him from the chair, the now empty mug still held loosely in his hand. She took it from him, setting it aside and leading him to the fireplace, an arm protectively wrapping itself around his shoulder, the elegant robe draping over the white frills of his dress. His feet stepped forward one by one, white ankle socks in ruby red shoes making their way across the room. He saw them in the field of his vision, but they seemed to be attached to different legs.

As she reached for the floo powder, Dumbledore crouched by Severus, piercing blue eyes staring directly into glassy black ones. There was a promise and a threat in them that Severus was powerless to resist. The intensity of the gaze bypassed his brain, sinking deep into his soul. Words, which would have meant nothing to Severus anyway, were unnecessary. The floo flared, the world blurred and had he not been firmly grasped by Euphemia, he would have stumbled. 

The house would not qualify as a house in Severus’s understanding, had he been capable of paying attention. It was too big, too grand, too old. It was more like a mansion, handed down for generations, with the secrets of the dead lurking in every corner. Even the fireplace seemed to scream of wealth, white marble kept immaculately clean of all traces of soot, ornately carved. The room seemed to spread out in all directions, but Euphemia steered his firmly from the fireplace across polished wooden floors. Down the corridors they went, Severus passively watching his red shoes on brilliant mahogany as if they belonged to someone else.

He was coaxed gently through the process of brushing his teeth, the toothbrush almost falling from his unfocused grasp. Euphemia fussed around him, a gentler version of Dumbledore. He stared blankly at his face in the bathroom mirror, barely recognising himself. His hair seemed longer than it should have been, curled ringlets falling to mid-chest. He had thought his hair was barely jaw length, but wondering about it made his head ache. He didn’t want to think, didn’t want to risk reawakening barely repressed memories. Didn’t want to question. 

“You’re a pretty little girl, aren’t you,” Eupehima said as she stroked her hands through his hair. He put up no resistance, letting her do as she pleased. No one had ever called Severus pretty before. The only things ever said about his appearance tended to focus on his ugliness, his uncleanliness and his poor clothes. He almost felt tears pricking in the backs of his eyes, but crying seemed to be too much effort.

“There there,” Euphemia continued, seemingly aware that underneath all of the shock and numbness Severus felt some form of distress, no matter how dissociated he was from it, “We’ll look after you,”

Somewhere deep inside Severus desperately wanted to believe in her. All he wanted was to be looked after, to no longer have to think or feel. He’d always wanted an adult he could believe in unquestioningly, someone strong who could defend him. He relaxed in her presence, an uncharacteristic action, just like the clothes he wore were so alien to the boy he had been only that morning.

He would have let her undress him, but the memory of Dumbledore’s blue eyes held him fast. Somehow that expression broke through the apathy that gripped him, and for the first time since he had seen what he could not unsee he acted of his own volition, weak though it was. He took the white, frilled nightgown from Euphemia with feeble hands that nearly dropped it on the cold tiled floor.

“Oh you poor darling,” she murmured, looking heartbroken, “I’ll let you get changed in private,”

When she returned, he was standing where she had left him, still vacant. He was wearing the nightgown, the lace reaching down to his ankles, the clothes he had removed a pile on the floor. He almost wondered how much time had passed that day, how much time had passed since Dumbledore’s office, how much time had passed since the bathing, but his mind felt slow. Time felt too slow and too fast at the same time. He could have been wearing the dress for minutes or days, he had no way of knowing, just the vague comprehension that now it lay heaped and abandoned. 

Euphemia took him by the hand and led him from the bathroom. He followed listlessly, his hand limp in hers. Normally he would have looked around the room, taken in all the details of his surroundings, but his eyes seemed incapable of transferring the data to his brain. Everything seemed a dull blur. The bed he got into without question, lying down silently. Euphemia sat down besides him, and gently placed a lilac unicorn soft toy in his arms, encouraging him to hug it. He did so, clutching the cuddly toy to his chest. It was the first time he had done so since his father had burnt his sole childhood soft toy, because he’d accidentally used magic on it. The unicorn smelt of lavender and comfort, a gentle wave of relaxation pouring over him, helping to blot out the memories of the house he had been supposed to sleep in that night. 

He was afraid to close his eyes, but he was also too exhausted to move. Behind his eyelids lurked memories, even if they seemed faded and sepia toned now. Euphemia continued stroking his hair, kind and reassuring. She murmured sweet nothings, a constant stream of reassurances that he was safe now, that he was a pretty little girl, that everything would be alright. Almost unintentionally, he drifted off to sleep to the sound of her whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

Severus woke in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. The luxury was on par with Hogwarts, a whole world away from Spinner’s End. He was reluctant to leave the soft bed, even with the sunlight spilling through the rose lace curtains, turning the whole room a radiant warm pink. He was still clutching the lilac unicorn from the night before, and he looked at it sadly, almost reluctant to think of the day before. It seemed to be a muddled blur of blood and lace. He felt like he’d dreamt of it, over and over again, and it was only his surroundings that made him certain that no matter how much he might hope it had not started as a nightmare. 

He was amazed that he’d managed to sleep at all, but now with the sunlight his mind seemed a little clearer than it had the night before. He reasoned that with how blurred everything seemed he could easily have been given some form of sleep potion without fully noticing. Thinking hurt less now, as long as he didn’t try and think too hard or about the day before. That still made everything seem distant, like there were thousands of small voices screaming in the background just beyond his view. He left the memories undisturbed, buried deep in his subconscious. He didn’t want to remember.

He sat up in the bed, surveying the room. Above him was a lace canopy with pink butterflies that seemed to flutter their wings, matching the bedsheets. As he looked, his hair fell into his eyes, soft black ringlets. He frowned briefly, before quickly erasing the gesture. Frowning seemed like something he wasn’t supposed to do. There had been a whole range of things, but he couldn’t remember any of them. His hair seemed longer than he thought it should be, the thought making his brain ache uncomfortably. Some kind of hair growth potion, he might have thought, but he didn’t want to think about it.

The furniture all seemed to belong together, a beautifully crafted white chest of drawers beside a matching wardrobe. Draped on the chair by the vanity was a set of clothes, as frilly as the ones he had worn the day before. Still clutching his unicorn, he swung his legs out from under the duvet. Sitting up properly, he felt a wave of nausea pass over him. He gazed at his familiar feet, a small beacon of what had remained of his old life. But his old life seemed like it belonged to someone else. The only thing the two had in common were his feet. He wiggled his toes, then placed them on the wooden floor. It was cold.

For a moment he stood there, lost, in his frilly nightgown. But after a moment he slowly made his way to the vanity and the clothing provided, picking them up. It proved to be difficult with the unicorn still in his arms, but he was for some reason deeply unwilling to let it go. It gave him a sense of comfort. Somewhere his subconscious seemed to disprove of his needing it, but it wasn’t strong enough to convince him. He looked at the clothes on display, all pastels and pinks, frills and lace. He had never worn such clothing until the day before, the day he didn’t want to remember, the day that separated his past and his present.

Uncertain, hesitant, almost shyly he began to get dressed. He couldn’t spend the whole day in his nightgown. He assumed, logically and correctly, that the clothes on the vanity were intended for him to wear. He didn’t want to get into trouble for being disobedient, the thought of that made something deep inside him twinge in pain.

The bloomers were frilly and nothing like the greying pants he had been used to, but he put them on anyway. He would probably have considered the dress to be a dress, though he was vaguely aware that it was of the dress robe style that many women wore, a style that bridged the gap between muggle clothing and wizarding fashion in a way men’s clothing did not. He had never seen a muggle wear anything so elaborate though, nor any of the girls at Hogwarts. Pink bows covered a starched white skirt, with lace extending all the way up to his throat. He reluctantly placed his unicorn on the bed to struggle his way into the outfit.

He knew, deep down, that while it was strange it was also what was expected of him. He couldn’t remember exactly, all the small details slipping out of his mind like through a sieve, but twinkling blue eyes seemed to be almost watching him, reminding him of a promise of some kind. The unicorn too had beautiful periwinkle blue eyes, and the the moment he was dressed he hugged it to his chest once more. The faint scent of lavender was soothing, along with the softness. It was almost like childhood, only not his own. It was almost like the childhood Lily had so patiently tried to explain to him.

His feet disappeared beneath frilly ankle socks, each one carefully pulled on. He wiggled his toes again. Even covered they were still his. That was faintly reassuring. The old fashioned vanity, tucked away in the corner, matched the other furniture in the room. He approached carefully, curious as to his reflection shown by the mirror upon it. He sat on the intricately decorated padded stool and looked at himself. For a moment he saw a stranger, a pretty girl in a pretty dress where once he had been an ugly boy in ugly clothes. But then he looked closer, drawing on feeble memories of what he had thought he looked like. He had never paid much attention to it before, and before Hogwarts he had rarely had a chance to look in an actual mirror.

His hair was longer, and curled, but it was still the same deep black. Maybe that was the reason why his face, despite all the features being the same as far as he could tell, somehow seemed to be softer. It was a strange sensation, or at least it should have been, to see a face both so familiar and so foreign at the same time. Yet Severus barely felt anything, though he was aware that he should do. It was as if everything was still numb, lingering aftereffects of the day before. He picked up the hairbrush, ornate opal, and brushed his hair. It felt nice, a sensation he had never before connected to his hair. It had always been greasy and lank, something to shove out of his face in annoyance. Another detail for his parents to fight over and the Marauders to mock.

Beyond the distraction of his hair, there were two doors. His memory of the night before was unreliable, but he thought one was to the corridor outside and the other was to the ensuite bathroom. He frowned for a moment, then smoothed the expression from his face. Frowning seemed wrong, as if it clashed with the dress and his unicorn. He pushed open one of the doors, the one that he thought would lead to the bathroom, but cautiously. He peered carefully round the crack, before opening it fully in relief. 

Reluctantly, he placed his unicorn on the bed and stepped through onto the tiles of the bathroom, taking in the details better in the daylight. Even the toilet seemed to be elegantly carved, like a work of art. The room was stylish, decorated in off white with golden details. The bath looked to be large, one that a young child could almost swim in and could almost certainly drown in. The toothbrush from the night before was by the sink, so Severus obediently picked it up to brush his teeth. He wasn’t used to ensuite bathrooms. He had been a child to whom just running water seemed like a relative luxury. He felt unsure how to deal with having an entire bathroom seemingly at his disposal, and the logical conclusion that the other occupants of the house likewise had their own.

He finished his bathroom tasks, the dress being similar enough to a robe that he found it manageable, though the stiffness of the skirt would have slowed him down had he not already been moving at snails pace. Returning to the main room, he gratefully picked up the unicorn once more, hugging it tightly to the bows at his chest. Taking a deep breath, he took courage from his unicorn. Before he might have been reluctant to hold it so closely, the harsh words of his father espousing true masculinity echoing through his head, but now those memories seemed to belong to someone else, so distant that they barely registered. Now he was reluctant to leave it alone in the luxuriously decorated room, so as he put one white sock in front of the other it remained in his arms.

Outside his room the corridors seemed to spread in all directions, and he almost turned back to the room in defeat, scared of the unknown. He had never been brave and now all possible hints of bravery had been sucked out of him. He wanted someone to take his hand and guide him, to protect him and make sure everything was alright. He would do anything to not have to think for himself, to not have to deal with the reality that lurked somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. Maybe he would have turned tail and retreated back into the safe comfort of the room, sitting patiently on the bed, staring vacantly into the distance, had Euphemia not approached him at that moment. He wondered idly, a thought almost entirely detached from his consciousness, if she had been watching him in some way. It was quite a coincidence. 

“Severine, I hope you slept well,” she said, her voice gentle as if talking to a frightened rabbit.

Severus nodded. He knew that he had slept, and he assumed it had been for a decent amount of time. It had been dark when he’d gone to bed, and light when he woke, which suggested a normal passage of a single night but it could have been minutes or years. He still felt groggy, as if he were still half asleep or in some kind of dreamland. Whether that was connected to his sleep was another matter, and he didn’t give it much thought. He would think more later, when he felt ready. Right now there was no need. Other people were thinking and deciding things for him, so he went along passively.

“Come along,” Euphemia said, taking Severus’s free hand and leading him through the corridors, “I was going to be taking some tea in the gardens. Sit with me, and afterwards I will show you the house,”

The mansion as a whole seemed no less large and imposing in the daylight than it had at night, though his mind was a little clearer than it had been then. The memories of the night before still seemed faint and vague. Thinking about the day before was something he shied away from, it almost physically hurt. He didn’t want to face the memories. He felt compelled to be obedient, as if it were the only thing that could keep him safe. Safe from what he didn’t quite know, just that there was something he was desperately afraid of that he didn’t even want to let into his mind. Everything was blocked out, and everything had to be blocked out. The corridors seemed different in the daylight, more alive and welcoming than the blurred shadows of night, but utterly foreign. Severus accepted them vaguely, aware of their passage through the mansion but also aware that he might never find his way back to the room he had slept in again, if he were to be left to his own devices. It didn’t really matter, though. Nothing really mattered anymore.

The gardens spread out from the house as far as the eye could see, vast lawns and flowerbeds enclosed by trees, sloping away to eternity. Behind Severus the house rose up, three storeys looming high, countless arched windows gazing down on the greenery below. He felt small, surrounded by endless landscape and a massive house, drowning in a lace dress. Euphemia led him to a table, elegantly set with fine china, where she gestured to him to take a seat. He sat, eyes roaming the surroundings vaguely. He was overwhelmed by how vast everything was, his mind still unable to comprehend as it once had. In the distance he thought he could see a broom swooping about above the lawns, a distant speck of activity amongst the open skies. 

A house elf, a creature he had never had any reason to come into contact with before, handed him a delicate cup painted with roses. He took it on instinct, raising it to his lips, recognising the smell from the night before. He sipped, the warm liquid soothing and calming as it had in Dumbledore’s office, loosening the coils of anxiety within him to calm placidity. Euphemia too raised a cup to her lips, though whether it was the same drink as him or not he had no idea.

“You slept late, so you missed breakfast,” Euphemia said gently, “But it’s still a while before lunch, so how about some crumpets?”

Severus nodded, not hungry. He wasn’t sure if he had eaten the night before, if he had he hadn’t noticed. He watched as the house elf produced a plate of crumpets, placing them in the middle of the table in amongst a wide range of condiments.

“Call James,” Euphemia said to the house elf, before turning back to Severus, “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have crumpets and you need to meet him. I hope you two will get on well,”

Severus felt the gears of his mind creak as they tried to compute the meaning. James was a name that seemed familiar to him, just like the name Potter did. It still felt like his brain was made of candy floss though, so it wasn’t until James was clambering onto the chair beside him, summoned by the house elf, that he managed to recognise James Potter from school. He felt a wave of fear shoot through him. Fear of James in general, stemming from the memories of being bullied that suddenly returned to crowd around the backs of his eyes. Fear of James recognising him, and thus disappointing Dumbledore, breaking whatever trust had been placed in him, for reasons and details he still couldn’t grasp.

“James, this is your new sister Severine,” Euphemia said firmly, “She’ll be in your year at Hogwarts starting in September. She’s already been sorted, a Gryffindor like you, so I hope you’ll look out for her and help her make friends. She’s had a nasty experience so I expect you to be a good older brother to her,”

Severus was momentarily distracted. He couldn’t remember being sorted the day before, the only time he could recall being sorted was when he had been called Severus Snape, sitting on the stool in front of the school as a first year, when he had been sorted into Slytherin. But his memories of the day before were vague. He felt unable to object. He had no proof otherwise, and somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered that James didn’t like Slytherins. It was safer to not be one. He wasn’t Severus Snape anymore.

“Hi,” James said, his gaze falling on Severus with no hint of recognition, a welcoming smile on his face that Severus had never expected to receive from him. He smiled back, weakly, hopefully.

“Hi,” he whispered, softening his tone, afraid that it would give him away. He held on to his soft toy unicorn, as if it were a talisman to protect him from the world. 

“Severine, this is James,” Euphemia continued, “He’ll look after you once you go to Hogwarts. It’s very lucky you’ll be in Gryffindor with him. It shows that you fit in perfectly with us, the whole family has been Gryffindors since record began,”

As Severus slowly nibbled his way through a crumpet, unicorn carefully placed in his lap, James helped himself to the rest, inhaling them as if he had just weathered a famine. James chattered cheerfully as he did so.

“I love Quidditch,” he said, brimming with an enthusiasm that Severus didn’t think he’d ever be able to match, “I’m on the house team as Chaser,”

“James, don’t speak with your mouth full,” Euphemia sighed in a way that suggested she had been fighting that losing battle for far longer than she wanted to admit.

“Sorry mum,” he said with a shrug that gave Severus the impression that he wouldn’t be changing his manners any time soon, “Anyway Severine, do you like Quidditch? Play it at all?”

Severus shook his head slightly, nervously, but neither James nor Euphemia seemed to be particularly upset by his response. James seemed almost to be expecting it.

“It isn’t a particularly lady-like game,” Euphemia sighed, “Remember that Severine is a girl, James. She will have different interests to you. Boys will be boys and girls will be girls,”

“Oh well,” James shrugged, “I just thought it would be nice if you could play with me over the summer but Sirius will come round at some point, right mum? You can cheer me on from the stands once we’re back at school, it’ll be great you see,”

Severus nodded nervously, glad that he wouldn’t have to play Quidditch. The idea of cheering James on from the stands seemed so utterly unlike something he would have done previously, but it was better than playing. If Euphemia seemed to think it was something inappropriate for him, then that was in some ways a relief.


	3. Chapter 3

“Tomorrow I think we shall have to go shopping,” Euphemia announced as the crumpets finished their act of disappearing into James’s mouth. Both the children looked at her in confusion.

“Severine has very little clothing except for a few of my old dresses that I still had,” Euphemia explained, “So we need to have her fitted for a whole new wardrobe. Plus, a new wand of course, and it’s probably better to buy your textbooks sooner rather than later. I think we can leave uniform robes until later, especially as James is still at the age where it seems like he’s growing everyweek. It’ll be a lovely mother and daughter bonding trip. We could even go to a beauty parlour and have our hair done or something…”

Severus nodded, eyes wide. James looked like he was glad to get out of the shopping trip, as clearly girls clothing did not particularly interest him. Severus had forgotten about his wand. He wondered what had happened to it, now that he was aware of the loss it ached, a dull pain that settled in deep and heavy. He had loved his wand, for all that it was a plain and practical tool. It had been the symbol of his way out of the slums of Cokeworth. He had felt a thrill every time he had touched it, treasuring it above all his other possessions. Those too seemed to no longer exist, vanished into smoke along with the boy he had been before. He hugged his unicorn to his chest, its horn buried amongst pastel pink ribbons. It was not much of a compensation for what he had lost, but at least he would have a new wand. He wasn’t sure how he felt about a new wardrobe. He had never really had much clothing nor much interest in it. Now it seemed to be shaping up to play a more important role in his life.

At his mother’s insistence, James took Severus on a tour of the house, looming over the lawns as a constant reminder of its sheer size. James awkwardly held Severus’s hand, grasping the limp wrist that Severus passively offered, pulling him along after him. With no other choice, Severus followed, neither eager nor unwilling, just doing as was expected of him. 

James led him confidently through the corridors, providing a running commentary on everything as they went. The bulk of the information passed straight through Severus as if he were a ghost, which was rather how he felt. A boy who had died and now was a girl with barely any focus or grasp on the world of the living, a transparent entity through which everything could pass without any resistance, a barely present spectre lingering on in the world of the living but unable to affect it. James could have lead him straight into the pits of Hell or the gaping maw of a raging werewolf and he doubted he would have really noticed. He wasn’t certain if he would have cared the way he would have once thought he would. They walked past portraits of long dead ancestors, who watched them pass by as wizarding portraits were wont to do as James told him their names and Severus cowered under their gaze.

To his confusion, James seemed to notice his inability to fully take anything in. He paused in one of the sitting rooms, a thoughtful and uncertain expression on his face, something that struck Severus as out of character, or at least out of character of the boy he had thought he knew. Brown eyes looked down through round glasses into black eyes surrounded by long dark lashes. James sighed, and turned his attention to the unicorn Severus was still resolutely clasping in his hand.

“Does it have a name?” James asked, screwing his face up slightly in a manner that suggested he had never spoken to a girl before and clearly considered them to be of an entirely different species, much like he regarded Slytherins.

Severus shook his head, having never considered anything of the sort. Naming a soft toy seemed beyond his capabilities, and he was unsure if it was something he was expected to do or something that would be considered to be overstepping some kind of invisible line that he knew existed somewhere in the whole scheme of things. Maybe someone else would name it for him, he liked that possibility more, but James didn’t provide him with one. 

Instead he just shrugged, apparently having entirely exhausted all his conversation topics. Severus didn’t mind, he was finding talking to be tiring. James made him nervous, a constant threat even though he had done nothing malicious. In some ways it felt like he was being lulled into a false sense of security, in other ways it made the vague memories he had of him as a bully to be false, clearly unreal and another example of the way his mind was distorting reality. The boy before him, with such lovely parents, couldn’t possibly be the same boy from his unreliable, fuzzy memories of the life he had had before, it made no sense. He could feel the uncertainty deep in his soul, the separation between his past and presence growing wider, an insurmountable gulf that merely grew with each passing moment. 

The tour continued, with Severus left more confused, lost and uncertain. James had been nothing but kind, making him question his memories even more than he already had been doing. It had made him more wary of them, even though there was very little that he could remember clearly he was doubting even the brief fragments. He didn’t trust them, and wanted even less to explore whatever it was that lurked in his mind. He was still in some ways afraid of him, afraid of being recognised, stern words echoing through his mind at the importance of playing his role perfectly. It felt like a test, but a test without an ending. At least when he had tests at school, he had known how long they would last, the clock ticking down as he answered. This was a test he had not studied for, had no idea what it meant, or when he would finally be able to relax.

He felt like he hadn’t fully taken in the entirety of the house, it seemed as vast as Hogwarts to him though he knew it wasn’t actually. It was just his mind, playing tricks on him and making him think things that weren’t real. There was a certain amount of relief when James finally led him back out into the gardens, where the table had been set for lunch. Severus wasn’t hungry, feeling as little interest in the food displayed as he had felt for the crumpets. He felt exhausted, as if the act of following slowly after James throughout the house and attempting to input the layout into his brain had worn him out, draining him of what little strength he had. James, by contrast seemed delighted at the prospect of more food, as if he hadn’t consumed the vast majority of the crumpets that Euphemia had provided for them earlier.

Severus kept quiet, as he sipped the hot drink he was once again provided with, letting the conversation of the family wash over him. It was there that he met Fleamont, the father of the household. In contrast to the vague memories of a father figure that Severus was still resolutely blocking out, Fleamont seemed to be the epitome of kindness. James wasn’t the least bit afraid of him, talking to him with open enjoyment. Severus was shy of him, the wariness of fathers imprinted on his very DNA to the point that it took him a while to adjust. He felt nothing much, just like he did with Euphemia. A vague, placid acceptance. Gratitude for their kindness, that he felt must be repaid through obedience, an instruction that neither of them had given yet he was certain of, the concept almost echoing through the fibres of his being, reformatting his core. 

He picked at the food on his plate, moving it around without eating, merely nibbling a small amount, a sensation of obligation obliging him to do so, but with little appetite to compel him to do more. It was almost difficult to swallow, as if it was choking him, and there was little taste that he could detect, as if he were chewing chalk or parchment, dry and tasteless. The Potters seemed to feel differently, eating and talking like a happy family eating their lunch, which was what they were. Euphemia watched over him with a maternal kindness that he found overpowering, but she made no comment as to his reluctance to eat. His drink was as soothing as it had been before, relaxing his mind and washing away the worries that had threatened to grow. The world felt perfectly fine, as long as he sat still and smiled. 

Father and son spent the afternoon playing a game of catch on broomsticks above the lawns, while Euphemia sat and embroidered in amongst the flower beds. Severus sat with her, quietly watching her needle weave in and out of the fabric, enjoying the scents of the flowers that wafted over him. Euphemia had given him his own needle and thread, as well as guidance, but he had not done much. As far as Severus could tell the day was uneventful, a lazy summer day of relaxation and peace. He went through the motions that seemed to be expected of him in a daze. By the time it came for what he had always thought of as tea but the Potters called supper, he was exhausted for all that he had basically done nothing. Just breathing seemed to be difficult, a task that took up effort whereas once it had been effortless. 

He might once have taken offence to being treated like a china doll, in danger of smashing to pieces if treated too roughly, but he felt like he was only delicately held together and on the verge of breaking, shattering into tiny fragments that could never be glued back to what he had once been. He felt like he was only just held together like a loosely tied ribbon like the ones on his dress. He should have been hungry, given that he had barely eaten all day and doubted he had eaten much the day before. But he wasn’t. His appetite was dead and buried under the weight of memories he had blocked out as intensely as he possibly could. Unlike the crumpets that Euphemia had provided in the garden, or the lunch that had likewise been served outside to take advantage of the glorious summer weather, what he now would be adjusting to call supper was to be served in the dining room. 

Fleamont talked about it as if it were a casual affair, but nothing could detract from the stateliness of the room. The crockery was as fine as it had been at lunch, the table far larger than was required for just four people. Severus felt small, a tiny speck of nothingness in a vast room. Gratefully he sipped at the steaming hot drink by his placemat, the same familiar sweetness soothing him, drawing out the slight hints of bitterness that always lingered in the brew. No one else was given a drink like his, but he didn’t question it. He didn’t want to question why it was only him, he just wanted to take comfort in the way it made him feel. It blurred the world and his thoughts just enough that his head didn’t hurt. It kept him safe from the risk of remembering. It kept him relaxed and content. He had no idea if he was putting too much emotional reliance on the warm drink, the taste one that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was almost as if it was on the edge of his memory, and had he allowed his mind to sharpen, to face everything that lurked on the edge of his consciousness rather than hiding he might have been able to name the herbs he imagined made up the soothing tea.

It was warm, heating him through. He liked the sensation of holding the mug in his hands, something warming away the chill he felt deep inside despite the warmth of the day. He inhaled the slightly bitter aroma, indulging in the way it made muscles he didn’t know were tense relax. That to him was far more important than the food that was being served. He might otherwise have been disconcerted by the house elves, for all that he had been vaguely aware of them. He had never had much reason to encounter them in his previous life, as wherever it was he came from had not had house elves. At Hogwarts too, they tended to be neither seen nor heard. It was only because he had once been inquisitive that he had known of them, had asked questions and sought out the answers, but here they were a part of life, serving the family their food just as they gave Severus his precious special tea.

Food was placed on his plate too, food he had little interest in. Food seemed so irrelevant, so distant and strange a concept. He couldn’t quite remember what it meant to taste, and the smell seemed to turn his stomach. He sipped his special tea, focusing on the warmth than ran down his throat. He could smell over the comforting, familiar scent of it a different smell, a smell that made his heart tremble. He could feel Fleamont’s eyes on him, watching him not eat, so with reluctance he put down his mug and picked up his knife and fork. Fleamont had shown no anger, but still he felt a hint of fear, a wariness at risking angering him, a fear of what might happen if he did.

They felt heavy, well made cutlery in hands that had little strength. Hesitantly, he looked at the plate before him. He wondered if the other Severus would have liked it, steak surrounded by potatoes and vegetables, a hearty meal with a generous helping of gravy. He felt nothing, except a faint disgust growing deep within at the smell of meat. Slowly, he began to cut the steak in half, revealing pink meat that seemed to bleed, red liquid seeping out from it.

He could smell flesh, the scent of the cooked meat mixing with the scents of the day before. The pinkness, the slight hint of red juice oozing out looked too much like blood, and he found he couldn’t block out the memory of blood anymore. His hands trembled as he wordlessly dropped the cutlery, letting it clatter to the table. Without meaning to, without even thinking, he tried to back away from his plate, closing his eyes to block out the steak that had warped in his perception to chunks of bleeding flesh, an impression that seemed to spread out to fill every corner of his vision, penetrating even beyond his eyelids to linger even behind closed eyes. For a moment he was a very long way away, in a house that should have been familiar but that had become a living nightmare, the memories briefly reawakened and consuming him, blocking out the firm realities of the present.

“Severine?” he heard a voice ask vaguely, as if a very long way away. He felt a mug being gently placed in his hands. It was held there by the other’s hands too, otherwise Severus might well have dropped it, and those hands guided it to his lips. He drank the warm liquid obediently. When he opened his eyes, his plate was clean of all traces of meat, replaced with some vegetables and potatoes that seemed to have been entirely untouched by the steak or its oozing blood. 

“Albus didn’t tell us you were a vegetarian,” Euphemia said lightly, returning to her seat, “If there’s ever anything like that, please tell us. We’re your family now,”

Severus nodded, obediently, willing to accept anything that would mean he didn’t have to be so close to anything that oozed red and reminded him of blood. The slightly greasy scent of burnt fat too was too close to his memories, once more fading away into his subconscious where they could lurk. He felt his body relax, unwinding, the warmth of the special tea working its way through his muscles and mind. He sipping at it, grateful and comforted, allowing it to block everything else out. 

Calmed, he quietly nibbled at his broccoli. It tasted of nothing, but it was reassuringly inoffensive. It helped him to not notice that the rest of the family were still enjoying their steaks, blocking out the aroma of cooked meat with its mundanity. He was relieved when the meal was done, and even more grateful when it was deemed late enough for him to change into his frilly nightdress, brush his teeth and curl up in bed with his unicorn, letting the empty darkness of sleep take him away. He was too exhausted by the day to waste time fearing any nightmares that might await him in his slumber, worn out by the strain of existing and relaxed into dull passivity.


	4. Chapter 4

Severus was woken the next day by a house elf. He rose from the bed that seemed more familiar now, and dressed himself. It seemed easier than it had the day before, the dress the first one he had worn the first night of his new life, a pretty dress covered in strawberries and lace. It felt familiar, a routine he was naturally adjusting to, the old life fading away into nothing more than a vague fuzzy memory like a dream. He looked at himself in the mirror, brushing his long hair. It was still curled, framing his face, the way he expected himself to look.

His morning routine complete, he stepped out from the quiet confines of his room. Unlike the day before, he reluctantly left the soft unicorn sitting on his pillow, a small guardian of the realm of sleep. He felt more at home in his new home, haunted but comforted by the protection provided by his own room. He hesitantly walked along the corridors, afraid of becoming hopelessly lost but also afraid of being late for breakfast. He clung to the vague memories of the day before, of being led through the large house by James, and to his relief he found himself in the conservatory, where the family took breakfast. James was yawning sleepily, but greeted him with a cheerful wave. Euphemia gestured at him to sit as Fleamont gave a welcoming smile over the top of The Daily Prophet.

Severus sat, arranging his skirt carefully. He felt a certain pride in how much easier he was finding it now, after only a few days. He had never thought to take care of his clothing before. He wasn’t hungry, as if his body had forgotten what hunger felt like, but he reached out to nibble at some toast anyway. As he slowly chewed, the same house elf that had woken him brought him a familiar, steaming mug. He obediently drank it, feeling the warmth run through him to his very bones, easing out any uncertainties or lingering questions that might have arisen in his mind, smoothing over everything as he relaxed.

Once breakfast was over, Euphemia took his hand and Apparated them both to Diagon Alley. Severus was grateful for her presence, as while it was far from busy it was still somewhat overwhelming. Life in general felt slightly overwhelming. Passively he let her guide him into a shop, where he found himself to be the centre of attention. Judging by the way that few words, or at least few words that he paid full attention to, were exchanged and the way in which the elegantly dressed ladies descended upon him he guessed that they had been forewarned that he and Euphemia would be coming.

To his surprise, they were very gentle, checking measurements over his dress but touching him as little as possible. Their questions and comments about the styles of dress robes that they had obviously been asked to make were all directed towards Euphemia, which Severus was relieved by. He had little opinion on the matter, and the idea of having to answer questions about lace seemed too much. He preferred to just let them chose what to dress him in, as if he was a china doll provided for their entertainment. It seemed that Euphemia was happy to make all the decisions without any input, choosing how she wanted him to look. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of his mind, he admired the richness of the robes that were on display, a visual demonstration of wealth that had once been beyond Severus’s wildest dreams but now the memories of those dreams were blurred, blocked out like an eclipse plunging the whole world into darkness, only this eclipse had no end in sight. Now this was his new normal, the world he lived in, a girl whose daily robes were the dress robes a princess might have dreamt of. There was a gulf, an empty chasm where there should have been questions and confusion but instead there was a calm acceptance. A soporific effect coating his reaction, removing the capability for confusion and replacing it with obedience. 

Euphemia signed the relevant documents as the ladies of the shop cooed over how cute Severus was. Severus was not used to being the centre of attention, and definitely never in a good way. He had a vague sensation of having once hoped for people to see him as something wonderful, to be complimented and loved, but that had been a long time ago, behind the curtain of memories that had been drawn shut. It was nice, to be called pretty and have people say how much the various styles of lacy dress robes that had been selected for him suited him. It made him smile, which only drew more compliments. Above his head, they talked about what a good girl he was, pretty and quiet, and he liked the feeling of being liked. He made a mental note to smile more.

The next stop on their shopping trip was Ollivanders, where Severus felt a slight thrill go through him that nothing of the past few days could suppress. The narrow, tatty shop was still full of magic, so potent that the air seemed to almost smell of it, mixed in amongst the aroma of all the many varied woods. Severus had always loved magic, and that held true no matter what form he might be in. Inhaling deeply, he felt himself spurred on by the idea of a new wand. He felt a pang for the old one, a grief that he might always keep deep in his heart, but at the same time there was excitement.

“Mrs Potter…” Ollivander said, materialising from the dark recesses of the shop, “And…”

“Miss Severine Potter,” Euphemia said, “She needs a wand,”

With that, Ollivander’s focus turned solely to Severus, and Severus found himself being considered by pale eyes. He gazed back at the old man, hopeful at the prospect of his new wand, eager to meet it. Ollivander hummed thoughtfully, before beginning to produce wands to thrust into Severus’s hand.

Over his head Ollivander muttered about what each type they were as they appeared and were swiftly discarded, but Severus paid him no mind. His attention was entirely consumed by the sensation of each wand in his hands, every single one slightly different. He could sense the cores and the woods, different carvings and different connections. Sometimes they sparked, a brilliant display of magic that made Ollivander nod thoughtfully as he tried to narrow down his choice, sometimes they sparked, almost burning Severus’s hand and making him squeak in surprised pain, making Ollivander abruptly change the direction of his search.

The pile of discarded wands grew, a chaotic mess that would undoubtably be a hassle to clear up, though Severus imagined Ollivander was used to it. It seemed to be the way he worked best. He vaguely remembered that he had amassed quite a pile in the search for his first wand, and Lily had done the same. He almost dropped the wand that he had in his hand, one that gave him so little sensation of magic that he might as well be holding a twig from a tree rather than a carefully crafted magical wand. He had almost forgotten about Lily, a realisation that confused him. As he continued to take the wands that were placed in his passive hands, flicking his wrists and allowing them to be taken once more from his unresisting grip, he remembered the girl he had been friends with. His memories of her felt like wading through treacle, and there was so much that was a blurred, confused mess, but at the core he remembered her, his best friend. He smiled, hopefully. He would see her at Hogwarts, once he had his new wand and the summer was over. Euphemia had said he would be going to Hogwarts with James. He would be in Gryffindor with Lily as well as James. 

He was distracted with his thoughts, so when he returned to the present it was with a startling suddenness, as the wand in his palm lit up the room with a burst of magic reminiscent of his first wand. He felt a flurry of delight, all his attention snapped back to that moment, the sensation of feeling magic flowing through him. He could feel himself smiling in delight, still enchanted with magic, even if the wand was a new, different one, it was still a wand that spoke to him in the same way, that beckoned to all the talents and abilities that lurked deep within him.

“Good for curses,” Ollivander was saying, the rest of the details having washed right over Severus as he marvelled rather at the wand than the specifics. He had never paid much attention to that detail, not putting as much weight onto it as some witches and wizards did. His wand was his, it suited him, no matter what properties it might have. He saw no reason to become entangled in theorising about what the wood or core might say about his personality or future, just that it was a wand and with it he could learn magic. Whatever properties it might have, he would love it wholeheartedly.

“Curses?” Euphemia asked, a worried and slightly alarmed tone in her voice, “Oh, no, can we try a bit longer… There must be something a little more… ladylike, let’s say…?”

Ollivander sighed, taking the wand from Severus and placing it not on the discard pile but on the desk. Severus froze, unwilling to give up the wand, one that he had felt a connection with, but feeling unable to raise any objections, simply standing in the middle of the shop in dejected silence.

“Severine,” Euphemia said, kneeling beside him and running her fingers gently through his hair, “Severine I know you’re hurting now but curses aren’t the answer. Some defensive magic is good to know, but don’t lose yourself to thoughts of revenge…”

Severus nodded, as there was little else he felt he could do. He had no thoughts of revenge, no particular desire to curse anyone, just a sinking suspicion that maybe he was innately drawn to curses. He had a vague memory of always having liked the dark and macabre, which Lily had disapproved of slightly. He felt a wave of shame, hoping that he could change that about himself to better suit Euphemia’s wishes. He didn’t want to lose her good opinion. That mattered more than anything in the world. He could feel a vague memory of blue eyes watching him, drilling instructions into his brain. 

Ollivander continued to give him wands, though he was a bit more subdued in his enthusiasm for them. Once more, they appeared only to be swiftly discarded, all under Ollivander’s thoughtful tuts and mutterings. Finding the next wand that Severus got a good reaction from, one that too bathed the small shop in flurries of enchanted light, took less time than the first had.

Both Severus and Euphemia looked at Ollivander, anticipation on their faces. Severus hoped strongly that this one, this one that was digging hooks into his very soul, would be considered acceptable, that he would be able to take it home. To have it taken from him as well might reduce him to tears, a misery of inadequacy overwhelming all logic.

“A very creative wand…” Ollivander murmured slowly, giving Severus a slight wink that Euphemia would have missed in the gloominess of the shop. Severus paid him little attention, changing his focus to Euphemia hopefully. She nodded, clearly satisfied, and Severus felt relief wash over him like a wave of soapy warm water, washing him clean. Creative, he liked the idea of that. He did like to experiment and create new spells, adding details to potions and exploring the limitations of magic. He was creative, and his new wand was too, and those were good, aspirational qualities. Euphemia was happy for him to be creative. He would be good and he would be creative. 

He looked over it as Euphemia paid, stroking the wood gently and enjoying the feeling of it in his hands. It was more delicate than his old one, or the one that had been rejected, though to him it gave him the same feeling, the same vibrating intensity that seemed to move with the same frequency of his soul. Unlike the plain, almost austere severity of his original wand, this one was intricately carved, reminding him of the patterns of lace on the dresses he now wore. But even though it was small and slight, delicate and pretty, it was still a wand humming with magic, calling to him and inviting him to use it.

Reluctantly he put it in his pocket as Euphemia led him from the shop, though he kept his hand clasped around it, unwilling to let it go for the moment. He felt almost invigorated by having it, being on the first step towards becoming a witch where once he had been on track to be a wizard. He continued to be full of delight, eroding away all the feelings of uncertainty, smiling happily.

“Thank you, Mrs Potter,” he said quietly, grateful for the wand and her kindness, eager to please her in any way he could.

“Mother,” Euphemia corrected him kindly but firmly, leaving no space for disputes, “I’m your mother now, dear,”

Severus nodded, letting her lead him to their next destination, which turned out to be a hair salon. It was grand, though hair salons were not something he had any memories of. Even knowing that his memories were fuzzy, he was fairly certain he had never been to one before. He had a vague shadow of recollection, of an impatient woman cutting his hair with scissors that seemed to always be a little too close for comfort as he sat on the cold doorstep, irritated mutterings echoing in his ear. The sparkling mirrors and comfortable chairs were a world away from that shadowy memory that slipped from his focus as Euphemia turned to him with a smile.

“I thought maybe you would look cute with a fringe,” she said. Severus nodded, having no strong opinions. He had thought he looked cute already, and so had the ladies in the clothes shop, but he was willing to be cuter if it would make Euphemia happy. He quite liked the idea of being cute, even though it was something that had never really occurred to him before. So he submitted quietly with no hint of protests to allow the hairdresser to coo over him, arranging his hair and cutting a heavy fringe that came down so long it covered his eyebrows. The results drew a whole new wave of compliments from everyone and made Euphemia smile.

“Oh that suits you so well,” she said, before leading him from the shop and down the streets to their final destination for the day. Ordinarily Severus would have been quite enthusiastic about the prospect of a bookshop, but he stood in the entrance as Euphemia collected the piles of books with no particular desire to go searching through the bookshelves. On the one hand, he was exhausted from the effort of being led through the small crowds. On the other hand, he way buoyed on by the way the ladies in both the clothes shop and hair salon had complimented him and called him cute, something he wasn’t used to. It was a distraction, something that echoed through his mind. It was startling how happy it made him, how much he wanted to continue being treated like that rather than the other words people had used to refer to him before, the words and reality that he blocked out as best he could. He had a pretty new wand too, and he was about to be led home to his pretty new room. He was too lost in his new little world to be distracted by books.

With the third year books bought, Euphemia took Severus by the hand and Apparated them both back home. There she gave him his share of the books, and handed over the others to James, who took them with a resigned shrug. The two children headed to their separate rooms, each to place their new textbooks on their respective bookshelves. As he did so, Severus wondered idly what James’s room looked like. He couldn’t imagine it looked like his, that he would be placing his textbooks on such delicately carved bookshelves, but it hadn’t been included on the tour James had given him aside from a quick mention as being the room next door to Severus’s. Euphemia had instructed James to allow him to look at any of their second year textbooks that he might want to read, as well as telling him to help him with any homework later on in the holiday. James had seemed quite eager to leave his homework to the last minute, and Severus could feel none of the enthusiasm he might once have felt, being quite relieved to leave it to be dealt with later. He was happy to end the day with the special tea, provided by the same house elf, and sink into the deep oblivion of sleep.


End file.
